


In From The Cold

by SpacePunkStevie



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (Partially) Nonverbal Bucky, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, He just finds it really hard to talk most of the time, M/M, Not explicitly romantic stucky relationship but lets just take that as read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpacePunkStevie/pseuds/SpacePunkStevie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Bucky breaks his own brainwashing in two thousand and ten and is taken in by SHIELD. In the time before it's discovered that Steve is still alive, Bucky has to deal with the future and his own mental state without his best friend to lean on. Bucky and Phil are in the first chapter, Clint and Steve come in in the next two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Winter Soldier

     ‘What’s your name?’

He didn’t have an answer.

He didn’t have a name.

He’d never been asked that question before.

 _The asset_. Not anymore. He had been captured by the enemy; he was a prisoner of SHIELD. There was never any extraction plan. This was a failed mission, _his_ failed mission, and he was all alone.

A prisoner, though he didn’t think he’d notice. There were guns pointed at him, but this was nothing new. He didn’t know what to expect, he may even be tortured but, well, that was nothing new either.

What was new was being asked what his name was.

                        Name…

He was being led somewhere by the people with guns and- and he was letting them lead him. There was nothing left to do, anyway. The mission had failed, the asset was compromised. There was no plan for this.

*

     ‘What’s your name?

He was in an interview room. There were no tools, no strange machines. The interviewers’ knuckles bore no bruises. What was his name?

The people had called him the Winter Soldier, but that wasn’t a name. That was… that was a story. That was a job. Maybe that was a death sentence. But it wasn’t a name.

‘I don’t know.’

His voice sounded strange to himself, so rarely used. And in this room with these strangers his voice was relearning English.

They’d taken the mask off. He’d seen his reflection. He’d seen it before, of course, but

All these people had names. He was the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t a name, but he wasn’t anyone else.

*

     ‘What’s your name?’

This one was different. He’d walked into the room with confidence and an armful of files and then

            just

                        stopped.

And blinked a few times, looked to the files, and back at his face. The face so usually hidden behind a mask. And then he’d frowned. And then he’d asked

‘What’s your name?’

_What’s your name?_

‘I don’t know.’

_I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t have a name. I’m not real. I’m not a person._

_I’m not a person._

_I’m not_

The man had a name. Phil. It was a first name. He’d been given it by his parents and he’d handed it out to the people he met.

‘I’m Agent Coulson. But you can call me Phil.’

Phil. Short for Philip. Two Ps, two Is, an H and an L. It started with agent, but it didn’t start with “the”. Names weren’t definite articles.

‘Why?’

 _Why can I call you Phil?_ It wasn’t the appropriate reaction, but it was the only question he could think of. He wished he had a name he could ask to be called.

‘Because that’s my name. What’s yours?’

‘I don’t-’

                                    _I don’t have one._

                                                                        ‘I wish I knew.’

It was the first time he’d wished for anything for himself. That seemed to matter, somehow. Like having a name seemed to matter. Like being a person seemed to matter. If he wasn’t a person, what was he?’

*

     ‘What’s my name?’

The man-

Phil had whispered to people, had left the room, had abandoned the files somewhere. Had returned with one, just one, in his hand.

Then he said, ‘I know your face.’

His face. No longer behind the mask. A real, unique face that belonged to something else. It belonged to a name, and the name belonged to him.

‘What’s my name?’

The others were exchanging bemused glances. Phil placed the file on the table. Slid it over. Looked him in the eyes.

‘Take a look.’

There was a photograph in the file. The face without the mask. His face. His name.

                           James Buchanan Barnes.

Sergeant.

                            _Bucky,_ it said.

                                                                                                            _Deceased._

                                                                                                                        It said.

*

     ‘Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.’

Two Bs, four As, three Ns, two Ss, two Es, and some other letters. J, M, U, C, H.

His name.

‘Call me Bucky.’

*

     They didn’t give him anything else to read; no other photographs, no other clues about his life. Said that it could give him false memories, or something. Said that this was delicate. They knew all he knew about Hydra, and he knew his name. It was a fair exchange.

And they didn’t blame him anymore. They said that he was brainwashed. Said it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t

It was only when they tried to absolve him of all sins that he realised that there were sins to be absolved of. The Winter Soldier’s sins.

But not Bucky’s sins.

His name was Bucky Barnes. But he couldn’t claim the name, not really, until he remembered.

*

     Until he remembered.

*

     Until…

*

     ‘Bucky?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How’re you feeling?’

Phil asked the same question every time he saw him. Others, senators, foreign dignitaries, directors of other intelligence organisations, had questions of their own for him. But Phil seemed to have made it his duty to field them. Bucky was grateful. He was just too

He couldn’t take being part of it.

‘Not bad. Still a little…’

The sentence disappeared. Maybe Phil understood. There really wasn’t a word for what ran through Bucky’s head these days.

It was better, though. When he first started being asked that question, he had been struggling to attach a life to the name he had been handed.

_How’re you feeling?_

_I don’t know_.

The doctors had told Phil that they couldn’t tell him anything. Bucky understood.

They’d tried triggers, though. Mostly pictures from his past without giving him the stories that accompanied them.

                        Do you know this?

            Nineteen forties Brooklyn.

            Times Square.

            His school.

                        Do you recognise this?

            A shield.

            A rifle.

                        What about this?

            The 107th

            Howard Stark

            A picture of a scrawny blond man squinting at something behind the camera.

Sometimes Bucky would draw into himself, start shaking. Revert back to Russian like he sometimes did under stress so that he couldn’t understand English anymore until he calmed down.

Sometimes he didn’t recognise it at all.

He didn’t know which hurt more.

But in their hunt for Hydra they found a machine that could bring back memories. Simple as that. Of course, they knew nothing about it. It could be dangerous. It could be anything. It could

Bucky’s past was still there, in his head, waiting to be unlocked. And Bucky himself wasn’t going to give up this chance. That, in the end, was all there was to it. Hydra could give Sergeant Barnes back himself, the very thing they had taken away. And now when he was asked how he was feeling, like when he found his name, he finally had an answer to give.

The only side effect to remembering was remembering.

*

 

Shot them from a distance.

 

Slit her throat before she could even call out.

 

Staged that accident.

 

Broke his neck.

 

*

     The only side effect to remembering was remembering.

He was Bucky Barnes. It was his name. It was his life. The thing that was taken from him when Hydra gave him an arm and put him on ice. He was Bucky Barnes, but he was also the Winter Soldier. Two Is, two Es, two Rs, whatever.

The Winter Soldier had memories, too.

‘How’re you feeling?’

Like a complete mess. Except he never said that, because the strange thing was that it was a privilege to be a mess. He was glad of the anger and the hatred and the guilt. What he really feared was feeling nothing at all.

 _Nothing at all_.

‘Not bad. Still a little…’

Phil nodded. He always seemed to understand. ‘You have questions?’

Sometimes he forgot how to think in English. Sometimes he couldn’t bring himself to take up too much space or to say anything at all, like he somehow didn’t deserve to be a person. Sometimes it all came crashing down on him at once and when it ended he was gasping for breath or sitting up in bed.

  *          P is for Post
  *          T is for Traumatic
  *          S is for Stress
  *          D is for



He never really much liked what the last letter stood for. It made him feel broken. He guessed he was broken. But he was improving. Everything was improving. He was allowed to ask questions now.

He had no idea where to start.

‘What year is it?’

‘Two thousand and ten.’ Phil said promptly, ‘Nearly eleven.’

_‘I’m sure we’ll live to eighty-two.’_

_‘You probably will, Buck.’_

_‘C’mon. You’re too stubborn to die. Yeah, we’ll be fine. You’re invited to dinner at my house in sixty years.’_

_‘If you have a house.’_

_‘Shut up. Millenniums come once every thousand years, you know. And you, Mister Rogers, are cordially invited to celebrate the new Millennium at the residence of Mister Barnes. RSVP right now.’_

_‘Hang on, let me see if I have any plans for that day.’_

_‘Funny.’_

_‘Alright, deal. I’ll celebrate the millennium with you.’_

_‘Look forward to it.’_

_‘Me too. I always liked fireworks.’_

‘I missed the millennium.’

Phil frowned, but didn’t ask.

‘The Howling Commandoes,’ Bucky continued, trying his best to forget the year, ‘Peggy, Steve, what happened to everyone? Are they still-’

_You’re too stubborn to die._

‘Peggy’s living at an old age home. But she has Alzheimer’s, so she may not remember you. At least, not all the time. The rest, unfortunately, have passed away.’

He was trying to be delicate. Passed away.

‘Steve?’

Phil’s expression was enough.

‘I’m sorry.’

_You’re too stubborn to die._

Maybe if he’d been found sooner. Maybe if he’d remembered who he was a decade earlier. They could have celebrated the millennium together like they said. Like they were supposed to.

He didn’t know how to discover the future alone.

‘Are you going to be alright?’

 _Are you going to be alright?_ It was one hell of a question. But he supposed he would be, really. He’d get used to it. He’d been alone for nearly seventy years. This was still better than that, even if he’d have to do it without his best friend.

The only side effect to remembering was remembering.

Bucky nodded, breathing deeply to steady himself, ‘Did he-’ _Steve_ ‘-did he have a good life? How old was he? Did he marry Peggy in the end?’ and then he was talking too quickly, finding it difficult to breathe, ‘Have kids? Did he-’ his voice cracked- ‘Please stop looking at me like that. Just-’

‘Bucky-’

‘Don’t say it.’ he said, sounding distraught even to himself and turning away from Phil’s sombre face, ‘Just don’t- you can’t- this is stupid. He wouldn’t die. He’s too stubborn to die. He’s-’

Phil rested a hand his shoulder and he stopped talking. Wiped away the tears with his shirt cuff. Took a shaky breath.

                        In.

                                                Out.

‘He did it to beat Hydra.’

Bucky stated it like he knew the story. He knew Steve. That was enough.

‘Yes.’

            He had to leave.

                                                He couldn’t be there anymore.

‘How?’

It was all he could manage. More warm salt water spilled over his lids when he closed his eyes. _Steve you idiot. You reckless idiot. Why did you have to go to war? Why couldn’t you just have been an artist like you wanted?_

Phil probably knew the story off by heart.

‘There was a plane.’

_Oh god, Steve, I just wanted you to be okay. I told you not to go to war. I told you not to go. I told you_

‘It, ah, it was heading for the states. Hydra was going to blow up the Eastern Sea Board.’

_Steve, Steve, you deserved a life. You deserved everything._

‘He put it down in the arctic.’ Phil finished.

Bucky open his eyes, trembling.

‘He hates the cold.’

Phil didn’t have anything to say. Or if he did, he didn’t say it.

_I should have done it in your place. You were the important one. I was just there to be your friend. I shouldn’t have left you behind. I shouldn’t be here._

‘It- it screws with his lungs.’ Bucky knew what he was saying didn’t matter anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop saying it, ‘And he gets sick in the winter. He hates the cold.’

‘Bucky-‘

‘But I suppose, with the serum-’

‘Bucky…’

_I should have been there. I was supposed to look after you. I should have been with you to keep you safe. Fix things for you._

‘How long?’

‘It was a couple of days after you fell.’

 _I’m sorry_.

_And then I forgot you._


	2. Sergeant Barnes

     ‘What’s your name?’

The words tasted strange on his tongue, like a recipe he’d only ever seen in pictures.

‘Agent Barton. Clint.’

Three Ts, three Ns, two As…

They shook hands. It was all very normal. Normal was good.

*

     They were pictures on a screen for a while. The memories. It was knowing without feeling and then

The only side effect to remembering was remembering.

He was Bucky Barnes again. He was okay. He was lost and alone and purposeless but he was okay.

Or he was breaking down.

His mood could turn on a dime and then he was standing in the middle of his quarters, exactly where he was before, except now his shoulders were shaking and he was crying silently into his hands. He didn’t know how long he stayed there. It passed.

*

     ‘I’m Bucky.’

‘I know. I think the whole of SHIELD knows. Phil told me I should keep an eye on you.’

For some reason any interest Bucky held in the conversation had drained by the end of that sentence. But Clint kept talking.

‘Actually, what he said was someone needed to hang out with you so you didn’t spend so long moping by yourself.’

Great.

He looked apologetic, ‘It seemed a little dishonest to befriend you under orders, but Phil seems genuinely worried about you.’

*

     Some days Bucky couldn’t go to sleep. Some days he couldn’t get out of bed. The things that had happened to him

No one blamed him for this either. No one blamed him for anything. No one but Bucky himself.

 _It wasn’t you_. They said that. All the sympathetic strangers who flitted by on their own mysterious errands through this sprawling SHIELD facility that was his new, strange home.

 _It wasn’t you_.

It was hard to believe when the memories were right there in his head, waiting to come to the forefront of his mind at the worst moments.

The blood,

                        the fear,

                                                the

It was always a relief when he woke up.

*

     ‘I’m fine.’

He tried for a smile, but it felt unnatural in his face. Sometimes it felt unnatural to speak.

Clint gave a non-committal shrug and offered to buy him coffee from one of the little vendors inside the facility. He looked personally affronted when Bucky admitted that he didn’t drink coffee. Bucky almost apologised, but stopped himself.

Clint bought him a Coca Cola instead, while buying himself a coffee so strong Bucky privately questioned whether the paper cup could maintain its structure.

‘I can’t have as much coffee as I’d like on missions.’ Clint said, offhandedly, ‘I can’t risk my hand shaking.’

‘Are you a sniper?’ Bucky asked, remembering suddenly the metal of his rifle in the one hand that could feel, the weapon pressed against his shoulder. Hand, eye, everything steady. Slow. Calm. Exhale. He didn’t want to say that he missed it, and maybe it was the satisfaction of being so good at something, but maybe it was that it felt

Safe?

‘Archer.’ Clint answered, taking another sip of his boiling hot poison. It was not the answer that Bucky expected.

He didn’t have anything to say next so he drank some more of the cola to cover the silence. It was sweet, pleasantly sticky and syrupy and so very unlike anything he’d had in so long. Coca cola may as well have been delivered into his hands by the cold armies of Heaven. Irrationally, he could feel himself starting to like the man under the influence of such a commonplace miracle.

Clint filled in the silence with, ‘I’m known as Hawkeye.’

He said it with something like pride and Bucky wondered how many people did their job well enough to earn a name. He’d heard “the cavalry”, but as far as he knew that was just a nickname. Distantly, from his time as an unwitting superspy, he recalled red hair and the name “Black Widow”. The Winter Soldier.

Captain America.

 _Steve_.

*

     Bucky had spent more than an hour staring at his own face in the mirror before he realised he was doing it. It wasn’t the first time. It was

the jaw,

chin,

Expression. He didn’t wear a mask anymore, but he wore an expression. Now there was a crease in his brow, lining his searching eyes.

He was the Winter Soldier. That was the name given to the pale blue eyes that alone were visible in his uniform. Or maybe the Winter Soldier was the layer of his uniform that covered him. Maybe he should cut his hair.

Or maybe the Winter Soldier was the skills he had. They felt more a part of him. Most he genuinely valued, despite how he acquired them. Maybe they could be useful. Maybe, in the distant, menacing future that no one ever talked about, the Winter Soldier could be useful. _He_ could be useful.

Maybe, one day, he could make amends.

*

     ‘Okay, here’s the thing.’

Clint didn’t seem to think it necessary to say hello, he just appeared suddenly by the side of whoever and start talking as if they were already halfway through a conversation. Bucky didn’t mind; he found hellos awkward these days.

There was a thing.

Clint didn’t wait for Bucky to reply- probably he’d gotten used to his dislike for talking- just carried right on with, ‘About Phil. When I said he was worried about you, I think it was because of when he told you what happened to Captain Rogers.’

_Steve._

Bucky nodded, pretending that that name didn’t still feel like a blow whenever he heard it. The other stuff, the things Hydra… those were things that he could handle. Maybe not now when it felt like a death-grip imprisoning his mind, but someday he would be better. But Steve would always be gone. The knowledge manifested itself in a million tiny thoughts like thorns tearing beneath his skin.

‘I asked him about it later. He’s had to tell a lot of people that someone they care about has died but when he told you

*

     At least Clint had said Captain Rogers. It was better than Captain America. Most people called him Captain America, like Steve was no one. Like the miracle of Steve Rogers was what was done to him rather than who he was.

It was just easier not to talk, usually. The small things were the worst. The hellos, how are yous, passing comments that didn’t matter and stuck in his throat. Most of the time his voice sounded strange in his ears, like it was someone else’s rather than his own. Sometimes the words just seemed so pointless, and so hard to get out.

Bucky was always mildly surprised when he passed windows. The light was always wrong. Sometimes it was day when he expected it to be dark out. Sometimes the daylight was dim in warm gold and cold gunmetal blue, and he couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk. It was the sleeping; he never slept at the right time. He was always either exhausted or unable to sleep- or both- and a normal sleeping pattern had long since abandoned him.

  *          P is for Post
  *          T is for Traumatic
  *          S is for Stress
  *          D is for



Sometimes he thought it should be for Disaster. Bucky Barnes, the Post Traumatic Stress Disaster. It had a nicer ring to it.

He’d yet to leave the building, this massive place with the disconcerting windows and the monument to dead agents that still bore his own name. Right there, under Steve’s. He slept in agent’s quarters and avoided people’s eyes.

The Russian word for disaster is катастрофа.

*

     ‘I asked him about it later. He’s had to tell a lot of people that someone they care about has died but when he told you, he said you were alright. For a bit anyway.’

‘I thought…’

Bucky wished this conversation had Coca Cola in it to make things easier. It was always better to have something to do instead of talking.

‘That he got to have a life.’ Clint finished, ‘Phil said.’

_It’s gonna be a huge party._

_What is?_

_The millennium. You already said you were coming, you can’t take it back now. Maybe it won’t be at my house, maybe I’ll hire a hotel floor._

_With what money, Buck?_

_C’mon, Stevie. I fully intend to be very rich when I’m older. And of course you’ll be a famous artist-_

_.Bucky_

_-you will. You don’t think we’re going to spend the rest of our lives in these tenements do you?_

Bucky nodded.

‘I’m sorry, by the way. And so’s Phil. I think it was the separation between finding out he was dead and finding out how and when that’s bothering him. The thing is, it didn’t really effect you in any material way whether he died in nineteen forty-five or two thousand and five, but that was the thing that mattered to you.’

Bucky didn’t say anything. All the things that there were to say didn’t come in words.

‘You never get entirely unselfish grief.’ Clint explained, in a quieter voice, ‘It’s always “my husband”, “my sister”, “my friend”. With you it was just…’

‘Steve.’

*

     Everyone knew who Steve was, now. He was an historic figure. A hero. History books said what Bucky had always known.

Steve had gotten everything he’d wanted, in a way.

Bucky knew he wouldn’t get to sleep tonight. He lay there, on his stomach, thinking about Steve in the cold.

He hated the cold, he always did. It wasn’t just the effect it had on his lungs, or the growing threat of illness. New York winters were bitter through and through, and Steve would shiver through layers of clothing. The damn kid never accepted Bucky’s coat, and he’d always feel the bite on the air.

Now he was alone in somewhere in twisted metal and ice. Bucky knew the cold didn’t matter anymore but it still hurt knowing that he couldn’t reach him to help. He was being stupid, but after everything he figured he was allowed to be a little stupid.

  1.       The heartbeat speeds up and you feel it begin. You try to stop it, try to calm yourself down. It doesn’t work.
  2.       Now, the fear of it happening adds to the fear that started it and it feels like there’s no way to stop. Suddenly you can’t get enough air. You feel like your stomach is dropping like it does on a rollercoaster.
  3.       You start to feel like this is never going to end. You think that even if it does it’ll just happen more and more. You feel the panic wrap tight around your chest all the terrible things that could possibly happen become things that are going to happen in your mind.
  4.       You brace for some awful _thing_ that’s about to happen. Every second it doesn’t come is just dragging out the agony.
  5.       It’s over, and you’re shaking and gulping in air and maybe you’re crying and hating yourself. And you know it’s going to happen again.



The Russian word for panic is паника.

He was curled into himself on his mattress like the walls were caving in. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat eventually stopped pounding against his ribcage, and as he lay shaking in the darkness he focussed on remembering how to speak English. He always reverted to Russian during a panic attack.

*

     ‘So now you know everyone’s hidden motives.’ Clint was saying, ‘And no one’s keeping anything from you. That just seemed important.’


	3. Bucky

     ‘What’s your name?’

‘James.’ he had said, sticking out a pudgy hand like he’d seen adults do, ‘But you can call me Bucky.’

‘I’m Steve.’ said the smaller child, taking the hand and shaking it uncertainly.

_He could see her in the window, alone in a study, drinking coffee._

_The bullet hit her perfectly in the centre of the forehead._

This Steve had been drawing for nearly half an hour while Bucky picked up the slack of the conversation. This was something he was used to. What he wasn’t used to was Steve biting his lip as he looked up at Bucky and then, nervously, sliding the drawing to him for appraisal. Steve was shy about his art, but from that point on Bucky was one of the privileged few offered glimpses at the unfinished works.

_The car crashed exactly as it was supposed to. The old couple inside died instantly._

_Strictly speaking, only the man was the target, the woman didn’t have to die, but this was more convincing._

This Steve had just been rescued from another alley fight and responded with ‘I had him on the ropes.’

Bucky was uncomfortable in his new uniform and even more uncomfortable under Steve’s envious eyes. Steve going to war was something he didn’t want to consider.

But at least they had this one night in New York and Bucky was holding a newspaper with

‘You awake?’

A burst of movement and Bucky was upright. Floor cold against his damp feet. Sweat on his exposed skin. Heart

Thud

Thud

Thud

                        _Breathe._

The dream slipped away into his impersonal reality and he felt so strongly the gulf between then and now. It was only when his breathing had calmed down that he realised that his hands were clenched, whole body tense, arms pinning something against the wall and adrenaline harsh in his blood.

‘Buck!’

Clint. Bucky took another deep breath and let it out, finally lowering his arms as Clint apologised quickly.

At least he wasn’t asleep anymore. While he was conscious he could block things out. He could stop himself from thinking about

_Keep breathing_

The Russian word for nightmare is кошмар.

Clint was watching him with wide, earnest eyes, ‘Bucky, they found it. Come on.’

Found _what_? Bucky just shot him a confused look through the early morning darkness. He turned to the clock on the bedside cabinet- heartbeat finally slowing- that informed him in dim red letters that it was just past two in the morning.

‘They found the plane somewhere north of Canada, apparently.’ Clint said, impatiently, ‘C’mon, up. I’ll be outside the door.’

The plane. There was a moment of silent shock as the door clicked shut. The plane. The one that went down in the Arctic. The one Bucky hadn’t stopped thinking about. He kicked the blanket into a messy pile on the side of the bed and scooped some clothes out of the drawer. There was only one plane Clint would be talking about. He pulled on a jacket against the chill of the night – Steve would have hated the temperature – and was ready in less than a minute. _The_ plane. The definite article. The one plane of any relevance. The one thing short of imminent danger that could have Clint shaking him awake at two in the morning.

Steve.

He tugged the door open.

*

     Bucky had spent way too long thinking about Steve, even by his own reckoning. There was no way it could be helpful to his long-term mental health, but he told himself that he had to work through his memories. Really the ones of Steve were the only ones he could bring himself to examine. The rest were

That’s what he told himself anyway. It served a purpose. And so he’d think about conversations in New York and jokes and alley fights (and Steve could be such an idiot) and he’d smile to himself and then feel like crying. Nostalgia was his favourite torture. It was an agony that came as an addiction. And no, it wasn’t helpful.

*

     ‘Where are we going?’ Bucky asked, as Clint marched him briskly down a corridor.

_Where are we going?_

_The future._

‘Phil says he wants to speak with you immediately.’

Bucky briefly considered his response to the inevitable “How’re you feeling?”. He didn’t know.

a)      Nervous

b)      Grateful

c)      Sad

d)      All of the above

[But why does he need to see me?] he signed, like Clint had taught him, [I mean, I’m glad you told me and everything by how could I be useful?]

It was one of the longest things he’d managed, aloud or in sign language, and even with everything happening there was still that ridiculous feeling of being out of line.

Clint didn’t seem to notice, he just shrugged and repeated ‘Phil says he wants to speak with you immediately.’

Bucky didn’t reply, though he still wanted answers. He knew he should be able to ask something else but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. ~~Speaking was still hard.~~ It must be the time of night and the news he’d just heard and he hoped that Clint would volunteer information.

‘Look, they found the plane and thought they’d wait until morning to tell you. They were coordinating everything and then someone arrived and handed Fury something on a tablet and Fury handed it to Phil and then Phil told me to get you. That’s all I know.’

By this time they’d reached the door.

There were- this being the circus that is SHIELD- many things that could greet Bucky as he walked in to what he soon realised was a situation room. He didn’t expect the room to fall silent as he entered. Fury and Phil, both looking at a computer screen, looked up and around when they heard the noise level drop. Bucky, nervous, turned to Clint, who shrugged and gestured inside.

Fury was giving Phil a look that Bucky recognised immediately. That was Fury’s this-is-now-your-job look, used almost exclusively on Phil, who nodded and gestured Bucky over. Bucky shot another nervous glance at Clint, who thankfully got the message and followed.

‘Clint told you we found the plane?’

Bucky nodded.

‘Well there’s something else.’

*

     Bucky smiled to himself when they heard what they were going to use on the radio. It was nostalgic, and that didn’t hurt so much anymore. But of course he had to tell them to use something else; no way Steve would to fail notice what game was playing when he woke up.

 _When he woke up_.

For Steve it would have been less than two days since Bucky’s death.

‘Can I see him?’

It didn’t seem real, that was the problem. By now he was supposed to be used to all the crazy stuff that kept happening, but he was having difficulty with this. Seventy years. Seventy years in the ice and he could just come back to life. He needed evidence that this was real.

‘They’re being very careful about the process.’ Phil said, ‘You can see him soon.’

Bucky nodded.

Steve wasn’t dead. Steve wasn’t dead and he would make sure that things would be better for him than they had been for Bucky. Bucky could tell him all the hard-earned things he knew. They could discover the future together.

But Steve would have to know about the Winter Soldier. He knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t blame him, but

He didn’t want to see Steve’s reaction. He didn’t want either blame or sympathy. Really, what he wanted was for everything to be as it had been before any of this happened, before Hydra happened.

He flexed his metal fingers anxiously and knew that that would never be easy.

*

     ‘Can I see him?’

‘Fury has to explain what happened first.’ Phil answered, apologetically, ‘And then what happened to you.’

Bucky turned to Clint, not sure how to shape words around what he wanted to say.

‘Of course,’ Clint said quickly, interpreting the expression, ‘we could easily get Phil to do the explaining. To be honest I think he’d be better at it.’

Bucky relaxed. He didn’t have anything against Fury, but he trusted Phil. He’d know how to phrase it, how to make everything easier.

Sometimes Bucky was jealous about the way that the words he himself would have to struggle to find and form just came so easily to Phil, but usually he was thankful for it. He’d needed things explained to him in that way many times himself.

  *          P is for Post
  *          T is for Traumatic
  *          S is for Stress
  *          D is for Disorder



He was okay with the word disorder now. Pretending that that wasn’t what came next wasn’t helping anything. That was one of the things he’d learnt recently. He’d been learning all sorts of things that he never thought he’d have to.

It had occurred to him, on several occasions, that Steve could just as easily be suffering from the same thing, but only for the brief seconds it took for him to push the thought away.

*

     ‘Can I see him?’

‘I have to talk to him first.’ Phil said, ‘After that. Apparently he’s well, no long-term harm. He’s a little… shaken… but well. We’re talking to him in an interview room, so you can watch from behind the glass for now, if you want.’

That was alright. It was evidence enough- more than enough- that this was all real. Evidence that was sitting there listening politely with the sad smile that Bucky hadn’t in seventy years forgotten how to read. Real, and living, and right there on the other side of the glass.

The Russian word for miracle is чудо, and everything about Steve Rogers was miraculous.

It was the same interview room, he realised. Not too long before he had been sitting where Steve was, while Phil handed him the file that contained his name. He didn’t think it was intentional; probably Phil didn’t remember which room it was. Bucky did. He always would.

Phil was holding a file again, talking gently, sliding it over. It was the same file, after a fashion. The same file, for the same person, but with so much more information. ‘He’s still alive.’

Steve looked up, and Bucky could see his face clearly, showing too many emotions and too many questions for him to really read.

Phil reached forward and flipped through a few pages in the file. He started to explain, but Bucky didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to hear all his crimes and suffering listed to his miraculous best friend. So he tuned out, just for now, and allowed his mind to switch back to Russian. He hated how easy it was for his mother tongue to slip into the unintelligible chattering of a foreign land. He heard the tone, kind and apologetic. And he could see Steve’s blue eyes open slightly too wide and his jaw set in something like anger. Phil kept talking in the English that Bucky could no longer understand, and now Steve was looking away, hand against mouth like he was thinking. Closed his eyes.

And then opened them again once Phil had stopped, asking some question with a hopeful expression. Bucky had to replay it in his mind a few times before he had returned to English enough to understand it.

‘Can I see him?’

Phil smiled, ‘He’s been saying that all day.’

*

     It did occur to him to be nervous about Steve’s reaction to him, to what he had done and who he was now, but he knew Steve better than he knew anyone; he was too good for that. Bucky trusted Steve’s goodness more than his own right to be forgiven, and maybe that was a problem, but it was certainly a problem for another time.

Because now Phil opened the door with a tiny smile and Steve was there, his face plenty easy to read. Bucky didn’t know what to say; hellos were always hard. And now there was too much to say in such a tiny moment in time and none of them would fit in the confines of coherent words.

Steve paused at the doorway for one second, two, while Bucky tried to work out how to react. Three, and then Steve stepped forward and hugged him tight. This he understood, this he could respond to. He didn’t even have to think about it, just raised his own arms around Steve and smiled into his shoulder, feeling something barbed and cruel melt from his mind.

He still didn’t know what to say when they pulled back, but Steve seemed to, with a genuine smile.

‘We missed the millennium.’

Bucky smiled back, abruptly aware that he hadn’t smiled much in a long, long time, ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘we did. But that doesn’t really matter.’

‘Really? I thought millenniums only came around once every thousand years.’

Bucky actually laughed, and Steve did too.

‘I heard it sucked, anyway.’ he said, finding speaking a little easier now that he was talking to someone he was used to talking to, ‘Everyone thought the world was going to end. Not a good time for a party, really.’

*

     He was getting better. It wasn’t something that could just be fixed by Steve being there, but he was getting better.

It was an unbalance of chemicals in his brain, he’d been told, the wrong mix of strange letters and numbers he couldn’t remember that left him waking up in terror or huddled into himself with fingernails and metal digging into tender skin. The intangible concepts of Steve’s goodness and friendship and miracle were ghosts against the corporeal and uncaring chemicals that were making everything too hard.

Still, Steve helped, and soon Bucky realised he was helping Steve too. They weren’t broken, they were just a little

He still struggled to find the words to explain. Empty is пустой in Russian. Hopeful is надеющийся.

Steve wasn’t so bad- nightmares and distraction that were little more than scars on the surface of his indelible personality- and Bucky was improving. They would be alright, and then

*

_‘Dancing.’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Yes, Steve. C’mon, you need to know how to dance. Can’t get a girl if you can’t dance.’_

_‘Bucky please. No, no don’t put any music- god dammit Bucky.’_

_‘I’ll lead. Half time. One step back-’_

‘Wake up.’

‘No.’

_‘Steve’_

_‘Shut up.’_

_‘stop stepping’_

_‘Stop talking’_

_‘on my’_

_‘Jerk’_

_‘toes. Punk.’_

‘Wake up, Bucky’

‘Make me.’

With unerring aim, the pillow landed squarely on his face. ‘Up.’ And then Steve was standing there, shaking Bucky’s meds in one hand and clasping water in the other.

The clock flashed 8:30 and Bucky groaned. But it was the right time to be awake, and having the daylight match his internal clock was still something that felt weirdly great. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed with little regret.

‘Take.’ Steve said, handing over the items.

‘Uh huh.’

‘Eat.’

[Did you cook for me too?] Bucky signed.

‘Kitchen.’

Bucky smiled, knowing full well that Steve would smile back whether he realised he was doing it or not. [Gee, thanks Stevie.]

‘Then finish packing.’

            _Right_.

Bucky’s smile slipped slightly, though he nodded.

            _That._

‘Not much more to do.’

            _Moving day._

Time to get back to real world. It’d only been seventy years.

There was a nervous, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t get rid of. He kept telling himself that he was happy about this. That this was everything he’d been working towards.

Who needed structure when there was the vast, confusing variety of freedom?

Steve could probably tell. That’s why he was going out of his way to be so annoyingly nice. Bucky wished he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his _job_ to look after Bucky. But then, it was never really Bucky’s job to look after Steve.

                        _What’s your name?_                               That question was still there.

                        The Winter Soldier.

Maybe, if he gets cleared for action.

                                                            _What’s your name?_

James Buchanan Barnes

Yeah, he’d read his Wikipedia page. Seen all the news articles about his unlikely continued existence.

                                                                                                _What’s your name?_

Bucky.

_Bucky_


End file.
